The Watson Formula
by NoPlastic
Summary: Sherlock and John celebrate their latest success, but something goes wrong ... A thriller-like short story, no slash.


"Anderson", you mumble in your sleep. Why are you talking about Anderson now? Are you having nightmares about annoying police idiots? Or are you trying to tell me something, John? Was he involved in the case? No, Anderson is too stupid for that. He could have been bribed, though. Most of them are once in a while. You know there is no use in going into that matter. Maybe you meant something else. A fairy tale.

What do you think of our new apartment? It is a part of the London Underground, consisting of grey concrete walls, grey concrete floor, grey concrete ceiling and an entrance which is very hard to find. A part of one of the walls projects from next to the entrance into the middle of the room. If you are looking in from the tunnel outside, the projecting wall seems to be directly behind the entrance, making the entrance itself nearly invisible. It is, in fact, an optical illusion rivalling those of the colonnades around St. Peter's Square. That was a joke, by the way. It is certainly a disadvantage that the wall also hides a part of the room and the entrance from my sight, but that way it serves as cover for us, I would say. I'm sure you would agree with me, soldier, if you could talk right now.

This location is actually quite close to the place where we were chasing the Golem. Do you remember? That was just a short walk away from here, up above, on the streets. You didn't like it there, so I suppose you wouldn't like it here, either. But you're unconscious, so you have no say in the matter. You've been drugged, and I'm drunk.

It was one of your stupid ideas. _Hey, Sherlock, let's play James Bond. _We had tracked the Red Skirt Girl down, that femme fatale who had killed all the wealthy tradesmen, and delivered her to the police. We were enthusiastic. We should not be enthusiastic too often. It makes us do idiotic things. You wanted to celebrate. _Let's play Bond, _you said, dragged me into a bar and ordered vodka martini. The bar was a horrifying place, too many people, too much talking, the music far too loud. You argued me into drinking with you. _Come on, relax, for once, you old killer chasing bastard. _The stuff tasted sharp and was stronger than I thought. I forgot to calculate the fact that I hadn't been eating for two and a half days. I was too content with myself for having been so far ahead of the cops. Enthusiasm - there we have it.

They originally intended to sedate _me,_ I guess, but at some point you went to the toilet and I stood by the bar alone for a while. One of the blokes who had been shouting and playing darts all the time walked up to me. He pretended to be interested in talking to me because he had seen my face in the newspaper. I wonder if he was involved, if somebody paid him to do that: distract me while someone else was poisoning my drink. If so, he was a good actor. He asked me thousands of irrelevant questions which I could not properly answer, so instead, I told him to stop cheating on his wife, go back home to her and his three children – two boys and a girl, by the way – and do up the laces of his left shoe so he wouldn't trip over them on the way. My comments didn't seem to appeal to him. His face turned red and he tried to punch me. Other people held him back, the barkeeper grabbed him by the collar and threw him out. That's when you came back, and we must have mixed up our glasses afterwards. You suddenly began to look very tired.

One of the men at a table nearby had a gun. I wonder why nobody else noticed it, or why I didn't notice it earlier. Well, I do have an excuse for the latter – it's got something to do with _shaken, not stirred. _He was sitting in a dark corner and the weapon was well-hidden, but from his posture alone it was obvious that he was carrying an Eastern European military handgun. He looked at us. Casually dressed, unremarkable, a phone in his hand. _Run, _I yelled.

We were out in the dark and he came after us. I had serious problems coordinating my legs, and we held on to each other in order not to stumble off the pavement. That way, we ran to the descent and down the stairs. We made it into the Underground tunnel, confused and out of breath. Then you suddenly stopped, loosened your grip on my coat, talked some nonsense and collapsed.

This here is the bedroom of old Crook Murray. He died three weeks ago, on the very mattress you are lying on now. What a loss. He was useful in the homeless network, one of my most reliable sources. His room is inhabited by rats now. There's a faint smell of urine and foul water. You would say it stinks. Don't worry: we won't have to stay here forever. Unless we die. I can hear him running around outside, or them, I don't know how many there are – the echoes of the footsteps make it impossible to tell. They are running up and down, occasionally cursing in a foreign language, trying to find us. That is going to take them a while. Well, I can wait. I'll just sit here, while you're lying there in front of me, and wait.

You can't lie still, can you? You're trying to win, clenching your hands into fists, fighting against the drug in your veins, however useless it is. I would do the same. I'm sorry you have to lie on this dirty bed you wouldn't like. I could not drag you all the way back to Baker Street, and I don't want to call the police. They would spoil everything.

You are mumbling again, turning over. I can see your face in the faint light of the neon lamps that is coming in from the main tunnel. It must be cold in here. I do not feel cold at the moment, but I can see my breath forming clouds. I can give you my coat if you wish. The running outside has stopped. Where are they now?

All is silent. Where is the noise of my mind machine, the never ending stream of observations coming in and analyses coming out? It's all gone. There's just this train of thought, and silence. I must be really drunk. I usually try to avoid that, it is not a state I like to be in, especially when I'm on a case. It is untidy and nauseating. I would prefer drugs anytime.

I did have a glass of whisky in Dartmoor, to calm myself because I thought I had seen a monster, remember? That was an adventurous case. But I'm not like you, who forgets after three bottles of beer on a Christmas party if his current girlfriend owns a dog or not. That is one of the differences between the average mind and the superior. In addition, I am taller and heavier than you. There is a special way of calculating the distribution factor used to determine the blood alcohol content in men. It's called the Watson formula. Funny, don't you think? It is approximately 0.1 times your age in years subtracted from 2.4 plus your body height in centimetres times 0.1 plus your weight in kilograms multiplied by 0.3. Or was it 1.3? I don't remember. See? I'm drunk. Well, I rounded the figures up anyway.

The last time I got really inebriated was during my studies, late at night on someone's birthday party I had not even been invited to. There was a girl I fancied. Girlfriends, not really my area. I staggered up to her and said: _I like your breasts. Would you sleep with me? _She slapped my face and left. That hurt. Not the slap, but the look in her eyes and the laughter of the others. You wouldn't have laughed at me, John, right? You're my friend, and you are a doctor, and a soldier.

You remind me of a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen. My mother once read it to me when I was very young. I didn't like most of the fairy tales she told me at that time. Now I know that they are such common knowledge that criminals sometimes use them as references. As a child I did not realize how important these stories are. They were sentimental, I didn't understand that, and I was busy playing pirate. But I never forgot this one: _The steadfast tin soldier_. It was about a toy, a small armed and uniformed man made out of what was probably a white metal alloy. One of his legs was broken – well, broken is not quite right, it actually never existed. Still, he was the most unwavering and bravest soldier of all. He was in love with a dancer. He went through the fires of hell, but his heart was indestructible. The lucky boy in the fairy tale who owned him didn't appreciate that. It made me so angry back then. He didn't observe, you know. Ha, ha.

Am I laughing at myself now? That has to be another sign of intoxication. You laugh at yourself all the time, but I never do. Except for that one time when we caught the diamond robber on Gerrard Street and went to a Chinese restaurant afterwards. It wasn't a good one, I could observe that from miles away, but we were both starving, you because of running around all day and I because I hadn't been eating for four days in a row. You were lucky, you ordered the spring rolls. My chicken was awful. We got home then to watch the police statements and press conference on the telly, and something was wrong with my stomach. It rumbled and made funny noises all the time. At one point it became so loud that I couldn't even hear what Lestrade was saying. It was ridiculous. We laughed so much. Do you remember?

Did you just shiver? I'll really lend you my coat now. It's only fair because I also borrowed your gun. The tube is passing by, roaring through the tunnel right next to us. It nearly makes you wake up. You dig your fingers into the mattress.

What I wouldn't have given when I was little to have a tin soldier of my own, to pretend that he was my friend. But there was no chance – we weren't allowed any toys of that kind. That's why I started talking to a skull. That was at least a bit pirate-like. But he was a poor substitute, rarely ever answering back. Now I have you. The very first second, when I was at work in St. Bart's and you came limping in, I knew. My brother surely doesn't like that very much. He would try to take you away from me if I was still a child. Not out of envy or malice, he's not like that. He fears that I could get hurt. _Tin soldiers aren't meant for three year old boys to play with, _he would say. _You could swallow the toy and suffocate, or you might poke your eyes out with his little bayonet. And by the way: Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. _You won't allow yourself to be taken away from me, will you? Not by Mycroft and not even by those nasty girlfriends you keep wasting your time on. You have a talent for choosing the wrong ones, the stupid ones. They would forget your name, too, if it wasn't such a simple one as John. One of them even called you _Joe _once. You didn't notice. Watson, Dr John H. The army doctor. The soldier. You belong with me. Even though you are a bit strange sometimes.

Listen, I think I can hear someone breathing outside. In … out. A man who has been running around for some time, then standing still for about five minutes. Now he starts to walk again. I suspect he knows exactly where we are and has now set to the task of proving himself stupid by demonstrating his inability of finding the damn entrance. From what I can hear of his footsteps, I gather he just went past without noticing it for the fifth time. It's starting to become entertaining. I am beginning to have fun.

I once told Molly about the Andersen tale. She understood. She always does, or pretends at least. I might fall in love with her one day. No, probably not. I don't like the size of her mouth. I told her a thousand times, and yet she is still there. She doesn't even slap me. Do you remember how rude I was at the Christmas party? I hadn't realised until it was too late. I didn't want her to be mad at me, so I apologised. I kissed her, that always works best with her. She had a wonderful present for me. I didn't open it at first. I was … distracted at that time, and she had put so much effort in wrapping it up. I wanted to keep it that way, in my room, on the shelf, because I found it amusing. But when Christmas time has passed, and summer comes, you know, it looks … odd. So I unpacked it, and guess what was inside! A one-legged tin soldier dressed in a tasteless woollen jumper, just like the ones you always wear. I knew Molly was good at sewing – the bodies always look very tidy when she is finished with them. But I was not aware that she is good enough with her hands to make something so tiny and yet accurate to dress a toy soldier in. I never showed the present to you, did I? I'm keeping it in a locked drawer with all my favourite items, like my violin notes, my magnifying glass and Irene's old phone.

There he is, our very clever pursuer, he finally figured it out. I hear him walking along behind the wall. He's trying to sneak in but scares up a rat. It squeals and runs away. He stops. I reach behind my back and tuck the gun under my belt. I have to get up now. I am a bit dizzy, but I think I can handle this.

I still can't see him, but I can hear his footsteps approaching the end of the wall. His head appears and he glances across the room. It's the man I saw in the bar. Short blonde, almost white hair. A half-smile – he seems to enjoy his work. He clenches his teeth as he tries to calm his heavy breathing and stretches out his arm with an MP-446 pistol pointed at me.

"Put your hands up where I can see them", he shouts with a heavy accent. "Come over here. Don't even try to trick me."

With my hands lifted, I walk up to him. Don't stagger, SH. Don't trip over John's mattress. Straighten yourself. One foot in front of the other.

He is using the wall for cover, just as I expected. Fairly clever of him. By far not clever enough, though. Really clever would be to notice the gun behind my back. The poor idiot truly believes I would obey his _no tricks _command.

Wait. Are there two of them? No, that's just my blurry vision. He's alone.

I can see clearer now. A different kind of rush sets in: adrenaline. It's good, it helps me concentrate.

The gun is not targeted at me anymore. Instead, he waves it aimlessly across the room. It's not possible to overlook me, is it? Really … Dear Mr Assassin, please pay a visit to your optician next time before you …

Oh. He's aiming into the other direction. Aiming at you.

"Hey!" I throw myself against the wall and yank out the gun. I aim for the MP in his hand and pull the trigger.

_Boom._

I missed. At such a short distance, damn.

He retreats behind the wall. Now, quick. I jump after him and hit him, strike him over the head with my gun. A heavy blow. My arm feels numb. That's going to hurt tomorrow.

He stands still for a while, holding on to the wall, but his fingers weaken. He drops his weapon and slides slowly down to the floor. I kick him in the back.

"Hey! Who are you? What do you want?"

"Kill you", he croaks out. There is blood running from the top of his head onto his cheek. He twitches.

"Shoot Watson. Catch Holmes."

"Who said that? Who told you to do that?"

No answer. He faints. Great. I'm in a room with two unconscious people, one my friend, the other our enemy. What now?

Is there another one? I think so. I think I heard somebody moving, and it was not you, John.

I look around and take a few steps back. The outline of a man appears in the entrance, halfway hidden behind the wall. I cannot aim at him from this angle, but he might have a chance to hit me, so I go further backwards. Hesitantly, he comes in, then suddenly darts towards me. With no time to aim properly, I shoot at him. The bullet punches a useless dustcloud out of the ceiling. The man attacks me and kicks his knee up into my stomach. Oh, that hurt, that hurt. I stumble backwards, back into the room, trying to use the wall for protection while I'm gasping for air. The pain is piercing from my stomach into my throat, making me choke and my eyes water. In a blink, I see the killer charge at me. He grabs his weapon with both hands and dashes it against my head. It hits me like a cannonball. That was too much. My knees give way.

I am falling.

My hand hits the floor and the gun goes off. Did it hit anyone?

John?

Black. Black, all is …

Voices. I see - I can hear … Black.

Why? Where am I? I'm on the floor, on my back, because somebody hit me. I manage to lift my head a little so I can see them. There are two of them. I was right about that, that's the good news. The bad news is that the one I knocked down has got up again and picked up his MP. They talk. It's Russian. I could probably understand most of it if I could hear it properly, but either they are too far away or something is wrong with my auditory perception. Why are they so slow? Why don't they just do what they're here for?

They talk even louder, cursing each other. Ah, I understand. They are having quite a heated discussion about our identities. I was supposed to be the drugged one, John the one walking around with a gun. So I was right about that, too. _Shoot Watson, catch Holmes, _were their orders. _Eliminate the really short dangerous soldier and get the really tall clever detective in the dark coat. He'll be lying half-dead on the floor, it'll be easy. _And now they are confused because the descriptions don't fit. Well, if that isn't a good joke, what is?

I have to get up. My arms are too weak. I cannot move. Help me, John.

"Sherlock?" It's your voice. As if you heard my thoughts and they've woken you up. Here, take the gun.

I try to throw it over to you. I can hear it slide across the floor. The killers react, but before either of them can catch it, it hits the wall and goes off again. They jump and duck down. I'm sorry, John, are there any bullets left now?

The killers yell. They leap to their feet again, getting ready to fire. John is doing something with the gun, I can hear him moving. My head becomes too heavy and hits the floor again.

Gunshots. Blood all over the ceiling.

Silence.

I wait for them to take me away. Take me by my arms and legs and drag me out of here to some prison or dungeon I will probably never leave alive.

Five heartbeats. Ten. Twenty. Nothing happens. I have to get up.

Slowly, I manage to turn over until I am lying on my side, supporting my head with my arms.

Thank god, John, you are alive. My vision slowly focuses to see how you are kneeling on the mattress, swaying from side to side. You're holding the gun with both of your hands, still aiming at the assassins. You might put it down as well now. They are dead.

How can you even sit upright? It must be nearly impossible considering the state you are in. Your legs are tangled in my coat. Do you think you could stand up? Wait, I'll help you, so we can both leave this place.

The room is spinning around me like the sun around the earth, or whatever it was. My stomach rumbles unpleasantly. Make it stop. My legs are too long. Look, how am I supposed to stand on them? Well, I can just crawl over to you; you're not so far away.

The floor is wet, rotten water and blood soaking my trousers.

After pulling my coat away from under you, I finally manage to find my feet and stand up. I offer you my hand. You look at me with your eyes half closed. Can you even see me at all? I kneel down again and put my arm around your shoulders. You are breathing heavily and lean weakly against me. No, you can't get up.

"Sherlock, you smell like a cocktail bar", you murmur under your breath and let your eyes fall shut.

There is blood on your face, but it's obviously not yours. These spatters clearly originated from gunshot wounds, involving arterial gushing, of the two victims positioned in the middle of the room, six to eight feet away from you. Basic. I would like to tell you the exact angle of impact as well, just to show off, but I must confess that an arcsin function without a calculator is a little too much for me at the moment.

I'll place you back on the mattress then, in stable side position. Another confession: I don't know much about first aid, since the victims I have to deal with at crime scenes are usually dead. Would you bend your leg … yes, I guess that will do for the time being. Let me take the gun out of your hand. Come on, let go of it … Thank you.

I'll go back to the entrance to see if there are any more threats, which I consider very improbable. Being drunk and getting hit on the head does not necessarily enhance logical thinking, but I am fairly sure that if any back-up killers had been available to the assassins, they would have been here by now.

I have to be very careful not to trip over the bodies. The floor is slippery with blood. At least I can use the wall for support here. _Science of deduction - guidelines for the consulting detective: Don't go chasing assassins after drinking a lot of vodka martini with John. Never play James Bond._ It would be nice to change roles with 007 sometimes, though. He gets all the Bond girls, how does he do that? By the way: Did you know that Mycroft has a crush on Miss Moneypenny?

The entrance is a black gap in the faintly illuminated walls. My eyes take a while to adjust to the dim light. The tunnel outside is empty except for the rats. Many rats. Some of them freeze and eye me warily, but they are in no hurry. No sign of another _Homo sapiens._

Well, then I'll walk back now, carefully. I'll keep the gun ready, though, just in case. The assassins' blood is everywhere. Good shots, John. These two are so obviously dead that I don't even have to check. Couldn't be any deader.

Lie still. I'm back. Don't worry, I won't leave without you. You're not in the best condition, someone has to monitor you, alright? I'll just sit here the way I did before.

Your facial expression is interesting. I have learned to read your face like a book, although that wasn't as easy as with most other people. When we first met, I immediately began to study it very determinedly, but still, it took me quite a while – let's say, twenty minutes? At the moment it says that you are fighting sleep. Did you know that these horizontal lines on your forehead, which I am tracing with my finger now, smooth out when you are asleep? At the moment, they don't. So you are that strong - I must say I'm impressed.

Wait - what was that? Is there … Did the dead men just _move?_

No, it's a rat. Just a rat, a fat old beast wandering around, trailing its broken tail behind.

I should call the police now. Where's my phone? Did I give it to you? No, it's in my jacket again. Ok, I have it.

Staring at the tiny screen with all its icons and flashing colours does not make the dizziness any better. There's his number. _Lestrade (private)._ _Dial. _

Free line signal. He's taking his time. Perhaps he's sleeping. I'm tired, too. I want a cigarette.

"Yes? Hello?"

"Lestrade, it's Sherlock Holmes speaking." Am I slurring? Yes. Damn.

"Sherlock, what the … What are you doing? What happened? Where's John?" He makes a _getting out of bed_-noise. "Tell me what happened. No, don't tell me." He sighs. "Ok, tell me. What happened?"

I explain as quickly as possible, carefully trying to pronounce everything right. It's so difficult. My tongue weighs a hundred tons. I tell him what happened and where we are.

"You're sure there are no more killers?"

"No, they're dead", I say. "The tin soldier killed them."

"Sure … Well, just stay where you are, alright? I'll get dressed and call the others. We'll be there soon."

He hangs up. Did he understand at all where to find us? It can't be too difficult, given they know that you have to walk past the station, twenty-five steps down the tunnel, then crawl through the hole in the wall - the left one, not the one that leads into the canalisation - and go left, left, right, left to get here. And find the entrance, of course, which took the two trained killers roughly half an hour. I better leave my phone on in case Lestrade calls back.

Who set those killers on us, John, what do you think? Who would threaten to kill you and destroy me? Moriarty would, surely, but this dilettante strategy doesn't look like his, except one of his henchmen engineered it. Anyway, looks like we are on a case again. That's good, isn't it? It means no boredom. There will be a lot of work in the coming days, I suppose. But first you will have to recover. I'll also have to sleep for a few hours once we're back in Baker Street.

I am sorry I almost shot you. I didn't mean to. Oh, and thanks for saving my life and yours, too.

Have you noticed how I am learning? When I realize I've done something rude, for example, I say _sorry, _and when I'm given something, then it's _thank you. _Sometimes I even manage to say it out loud. That's good, it's polite. One day I'll be a good man. You will praise me for that when you wake up, yes?

The police will be here soon. I think I can hear them already. They will drive us home. I'll try my best not to vomit in their car. Unless it's Anderson's car.

You are sleeping again. I am tired, too. But I won't sleep now. Someone has to pay attention and keep the rats away. The rats and the water and the fish. I will. Don't worry.

The neon light is flickering. My eyelids are so heavy.

I'll stay awake.

What time is it?


End file.
